Introductions: Mohammed al Sharif
by Botosphere
Summary: Companion fic to "Tie That Binds." Mohammed al Sharif thought he was just doing his part to fight prejudice, until he actually meets the Autobots. Aliens are all well and good in theory, but in practice?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a companion fic to both "Kinship" and "The Tie That Binds." Mohammed al-Sharif is Sam's personal aide on the aircraft carrier the Autobots are sailing on back to Diego Garcia.

Also, I am not Muslim but my character is and his religion plays a significant part in his life. I've done some research, but it's not the same as participating in a culture, so I hope I have shown appropriate respect for the sacred beliefs of others. Even if this is a Transformers fanfic. :)

* * *

Admiral Black buzzed me into his office and handed me an envelope. "See that this gets delivered to Mr. Witwicky."

"Yes sir."

I could have assigned a courier to bring the note to Mr. Witwicky, but my own curiosity got the better of me. Everything I'd seen on the news, everything I'd heard as I worked, everything said in the corridors of the ship indicated that we were carrying in our cargo hold the deadliest beings the world had ever known. Everything, that is, except one Samuel James Witwicky. Just minutes ago, he had chewed out Ensign Park in Communications for calling the biggest of the Autobots 'it' instead of 'him.'

It was impossible to not compare the aliens' attack to September 11th – a cowardly assault on civilians. But unlike most of my fellow crewmen, the echoes of September 11th that haunted the airwaves and the halls also opened my mind toward these aliens. I was a Muslim and the son of Iranian immigrants who had escaped to the U.S. in the 1970's. I knew what it felt like to see the change on people's faces when they read my name on the checks I wrote at the store. I knew what it felt like to see the stained-glass windows of my mosque smashed by vandals. I knew what it felt like to be "randomly" screened every time I boarded a flight or entered a secured government building. In short, I knew what it felt like to be judged guilty by association.

Samuel Witwicky had insisted that the aliens onboard were not like the ones who attacked us. I didn't necessarily believe him, but I _was _curious. There are two sides to every story, and here was a man who could tell us the Autobots' side. So I took the message from Admiral Black down to the mess hall and personally delivered it to Mr. Witwicky, just to spend a little more time observing him.

He read the note and grinned, slapping his hand with it. "How long do we have until the meeting?"

I answered, "The British representative has been delayed, so we won't be starting until 15:30 hours."

With a frown, Mr. Witwicky demanded, "Then why did you come to get me so early?"

"I didn't. Admiral Black wanted me to bring the note to you."

He looked back at his friends and family still happily talking in the mess hall and then turned to me. "Then I need to go to the Autobot cargo bay."

I nodded, my heart suddenly in my throat. I'd only wanted to observe Mr. Witwicky, but I couldn't pass up an opportunity to get a look at the robots, too. "Right this way, sir."

In the silence of the elevator, I couldn't help but wonder what I'd see when we got down to the cargo hold. Would the robots be in their car shapes or the bipedal ones? Would they be quietly sitting at designated stations, analyzing data or awaiting orders? Would they be in stand-by mode? How do you 'wake up' alien robots, anyway?

Mr. Witwicky stepped off the elevator as confidently as if this were a shopping mall instead of the nest of a bunch of dangerous robots. I followed in his wake, knowing from years of experience just how far to hang back in order to remain invisible until my superior officer needed me to do something.

A yellow car careened toward Witwicky, and he smiled at his approaching death. "It's afternoon, bee," he inexplicably said. Then he held up the letter from Admiral Black. "Good news, guys! You're allowed to transform again."

The yellow car broke apart, shifting with whirs and clicks into the bipedal form I'd only heard about. I staggered back in alarm, heart racing, as vehicle after vehicle transformed from something mundane to something utterly alien. The largest of them – broad-shouldered and terrifying – knelt in front of us. In front of Mr. Witwicky, almost like a sign of respect. "Thank you, Sam." The alien spoke with the voice of power and authority, even as he was offering gratitude.

But Mr. Witwicky didn't seem to see it that way and answered off-handedly, "It was the least I could do, and I didn't do much. Just argued with the admiral."

I'd imagine a man having better luck arguing with a brick wall. And Mr. Witwicky had _moved_ him?

"And sorry I didn't get down here this morning," the boy continued. "It's been a crazy day."

"I'm familiar with the phenomenon," the alien answered, and I realized this was the leader, the one called Optimus who Mr. Witwicky had so energetically defended.

"So yeah," Mr. Witwicky blithely said, as if he was conversing with a fellow human. "Just don't use your holoforms _at all_ and don't wander out of the cargo bay without me, and we're good. First violation of that by anyone gets you all in lockdown again. Sorry you're still so restricted. You guys really shouldn't be treated like this at all."

"Convincing the world will take time," the alien answered patiently, again acting like the boy was…was the one in charge. Backwards, that's what it was. "Don't let it trouble you. We are content with this for now."

"Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime, though? Anything you need?"

"Something to shoot at?" a black alien rumbled, his enormous arm-mounted weapons glowing faintly. An icy prickle of terror made my hair stand on end.

"That's what Skids and Mudflap are for," another one – all sharp angles and vicious blades – retorted.

Two other aliens reacted at that, shouting and gesturing in what looked like anger, though I was having a hard time figuring out if they were speaking English or not.

A blue alien with a nasty-looking whip flicked it in their direction. "Permission to throw them overboard?"

He was asking _Witwicky_? The boy had so much power among them that his word would decide the fate of the two angry ones?

"Denied," my fellow human answered with a perfectly straight face. "We'd get hit for littering."

Guffaws broke out around me, with the yellow robot holding his arms across his midsection like he really was belly-laughing. Witwicky smiled, too.

Another large alien – about half as big as the red-and-blue one but still big enough to be frightening – placed his hand behind Mr. Witwicky's back and guided him toward a partitioned-off area. "If holoforms are not allowed, then I'd better dispense your pills now for the rest of the day."

Swallowing hard, I trailed behind Mr. Witwicky, careful to stay out of the way of the yellow robot, who was also following them.

I watched in awe as the taller one's hand transformed into a pen. A _pen_! I thought they had two forms – but seeing this, I realized that they had countless combinations of forms and tools that they could use. It was…it was like magic almost. If you needed something, *poof* it was there.

"Take this ibuprofen at 17:00 hours and the Lortab before bed. And I expect you to report to me in the morning before you go to any more meetings." This must be the robots' medic, I realized. An alien medic who also knew how to heal humans – it wasn't until this moment that I suddenly realized how _inferior _we mere mortals were. Of course this robot would know everything about medicine – he could remember and sift through information better than any human doctor.

"I'll do my best," Mr. Witwicky answered, again conducting himself with the air of someone who was at ease and not the least bit worried about the massive, bossy robot in front of him. "But it _has _been three days now, Ratchet. I'm sure I'll be fine even if I miss a dose."

The medic Ratchet huffed in annoyance. "Your fellow humans have shown a singular disregard for your wellbeing. Do not follow their example."

"Yeah, well, I told off the people who were overbooking me. It shouldn't be a problem in the future. Hopefully."

Ratchet straightened, folding his arms and looking both stubborn and disgruntled, but he said nothing. Again, he gave the impression of someone who knew there was a line of respect surrounding Mr. Witwicky and he refused to cross it.

The boy deftly changed the subject. "Have you made any progress with your research?"

They talked for a minute about it, with Mr. Witwicky warning – _warning _– the alien doctor that he wouldn't let him stall forever. And the doctor was actually defensive about it. What in the world was going on here? How…what was it about Samuel Witwicky that gave him such power over the aliens?

The yellow one was drooping – almost looking like he was sad – and Sam casually patted his leg as he followed Ratchet out to the main room of the cargo bay. "Come on, 'Bee."

Bee. That must be his name. And Bee did just what his…master? Friend? Commander? Ambassador? …what Sam told him to do.

Optimus, Ratchet, Bee, and Mr. Witwicky all paused in front of a tractor-trailer, and my fellow human read aloud the words painted on it. "Blackbird Weapons and Defense Systems. Doom Bringer."

They started talking about armor and things that I didn't understand, but one thing was crystal clear when he finished – Mr. Witwicky was the one in charge here. "Okay, Ratchet, you're off the hook. But keep me posted."

"Agreed."

Then, as if this was all as commonplace and normal as a human interaction, Mr. Witwicky turned to me, saying, "We probably need to get to the meeting, huh."

"Yes sir." And that 'sir' was much more than a courtesy now.

…

When I reported back to Captain Wilder, he gave me an appraising look. "Took you quite a while just to deliver a note."

"Mr. Witwicky wished to visit the Autobots, sir, so I escorted him there and then to his next meeting."

"I assigned Ramirez to be his personal aide, but she was less than enthusiastic about it."

"I volunteer," I instantly answered. I knew Captain Wilder, and he was offering me the job.

He nodded. "Good. Notify Ramirez and finish up your other assignments so you can begin first thing tomorrow morning."


	2. Chapter 2

Ensign Roskelley had been the first to ask, back when I was transferred to Captain Wilder's command. I'd been nursing a cup of coffee in the mess hall before starting my shift and reading my Quran. Coming up behind me with his tray, he had noticed the Arabic letters. "You believe it?" he asked, nodding toward the book.

"Yes," I simply answered.

"Huh." Sitting down across from me, he said, "All of it?"

"All of it."

He took a bite of omelet and chewed thoughtfully before asking, "The part about the 70 virgins for martyrs?"

I turned to Surah 55:22 and pointed to the words on the page, feeling foolish when I remembered he probably didn't read Arabic. "This line is commonly translated as 'and there will be companions with beautiful, lustrous eyes.' The problem with this translation is that the word 'companions' isn't in the text. The only noun is 'eyes,' but it's a homonym – it's one word that's spelled and pronounced the same but has two very different meanings. An example in English is 'bank.' You can have a bank where you store things like money or blood, or a bank like a riverbank, or there's also the verb 'bank' like where you bank a fire. It's all the same word and you have to go by the context to know which meaning to use."

Roskelley nodded slowly, so I hoped I hadn't lost him with my tangent into grammar. "So the word translated as 'eyes' is exactly the same word for 'springs' like springs of water. Traditionally, this line has been understood to be a reference to virgins given to martyrs, yes. But since the entire chapter is describing the delights of the garden of heaven - things like cool shade and fruit within easy reach and comfortable couches – others have claimed 'springs of water' is the more appropriate meaning. It seems to make more sense to me, personally."

"Beautiful, lustrous springs?"

"Another translation for lustrous is clear or pure."

"Ah." Roskelley eyed me curiously. "So where'd the idea of the 70 virgins come from?"

"The Hadith – sayings attributed to the Prophet."

He took another bite of his eggs, and after a second, asked, "So you don't believe the…what's it called?"

"They are called the Hadith. I believe the holy Quran to be the direct word of God, but no one claims that of the Hadith. Many of them are words of truth, spoken by God's messenger, but even the soundest are not of the same quality as the Quran."

"How'd you know all this?"

I shrugged. "My father was a university professor of theology before the rise of the Ayatollah in Iran. His views weren't orthodox enough and he and my mother sought asylum in the United States a couple of years before I was born."

Again he retreated into his breakfast, chewing while thinking about what I'd said.

By then my coffee was unpleasantly tepid, and I rose to my feet. "And Roskelley?"

"Yeah?

"Thank you for asking instead of just assuming."

...

For a few weeks after that, I'd get questions during every meal until eventually the novelty wore off and conversation turned to other topics. Captain Wilder did his best to accommodate my beliefs. When I could, I slipped away to an empty conference room to pray, but military life does not revolve around a prayer schedule, so sometimes I would have to tip my head to the east and silently offer my prayers, knowing that God is both cognizant and merciful. I worked every Saturday and Sunday, trading shifts whenever I could so that I would be free to worship on Fridays. It was not easy being one of only a handful of believers in the fleet, but it wasn't as hard as I'd feared it would be.

And then the world was attacked by aliens.

At first there wasn't time to really think about it in terms of my religious beliefs. The first couple of days I simply reacted, relying on my training to get me through first the battle and then its aftermath. Today had been the first real chance to ponder how this new reality affected my belief. I'd seen the aliens up close now, and I still wasn't entirely sure what to make of them. If their intelligence was artificial, it was centuries ahead of what we humans could program for our computers. And if it wasn't artificial – if they were genuine intelligences like us humans – how did they fit?

Before all this, I'd heard some people claim that UFO sightings were the results of evil, mischievous djinn trying to confuse and frighten people. The power of the evil djinn was always in their ability to mislead. Could the Autobots be djinn? Most of the stories about the djinn were from the Hadith or other traditional sources, and so I wasn't sure what exactly to believe about them.

It wasn't much of an issue until this last week. I'd simply accepted what was in the Quran and taken the rest with a grain of salt. It seemed a bit farfetched, for instance, that each human being had an assigned djinn who tempted him. It smacked too much of the Christian notion of guardian angels.

In some ways, though, the Autobots fit the mold of djinn very well. Like djinn, they could change their forms, they could be killed, they needed sustenance (we'd had to refuel them after the battle and I knew how long they took to top off), and they had very long lives. But djinn were created both male and female, and Mr. Witwicky had been adamant that we use the male pronouns for the Autobots, so that aspect didn't fit. The djinn also were said to be invisible and intangible until they took on the shape they wanted. These Autobots were always tangible, but in a sense, they were invisible when they were in their car forms. That was the root meaning of the word djinn – hidden.

It was also said that, like men and angels, djinn had free will and ranged from believers who were themselves Muslim to the devil himself. If these Autobots were djinn (or something similar), were they helpers to humanity or deceivers? And how was one to know? A whole chapter of the Quran was devoted to the subject of the djinn, and so when I finally finished my shift, I went to my bunk and opened my Quran to Surah 72. I read the entire chapter, and while it was comforting to remember that some of the djinn received the Quran with gladness, I still wasn't satisfied somehow. After all none of the Autobots had professed Islam or shown any indication that they were believers. And yet, just because they weren't believers, it didn't necessarily mean they were _bad_.

After performing the wudu purification ritual, I picked up my compass, oriented myself, unrolled my prayer rug, and began my evening prayer. When it came time to kneel in submission to God, a sudden image flashed through my mind – Optimus kneeling in the cargo bay to talk to Mr. Witwicky. And then I recalled another account of the djinn in the Quran, this one from Surah 7. God had commanded all the djinn to kneel before Adam, but one refused and thus fell, becoming Satan. I set aside that thought until after I had completed the prayer, but when done, I again opened my Quran and re-read the passage.

Whether the Autobots were djinn or not, whether they were believers or not, their leader had knelt to a human. Whether he saw this as an act of submission or of mere courtesy, he had shown by both deed and word that he did not consider Mr. Witwicky above himself. If anything, the Autobots had shown deference to my fellow human. I took a deep breath, sighing in relief as both my heart and mind agreed – the Autobots were friends to humanity, just as they claimed.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Many thanks to all the people who have alerted, favorited, or reviewed this fic. Your silent support in the form of alerts and favorites and your warm words of encouragement in reviews have convinced me to write more of Mohammed al-Sharif's story both here and in "The Tie that Binds." I was very nervous about writing from a religious person's POV, and I particularly appreciate your review, Kireta; it was a relief to know that one Muslim, at least, found my story to be respectful. I hope to be able to keep that up. :)

* * *

I arrived early the next morning, trying to not be judgmental when a woman was the first person to exit Mr. Witwicky's room. They lived under a different standard, I reminded myself. Eventually, though, he stepped out into the hall and greeted me.

"Sir. Captain Wilder has assigned me as your personal aide. He also asked me to inform you that you now owe him lunch."

He chuckled and answered, "If Mikaela Baines can join us, I'm on for today. But tell the people in Communications that I still get a casual meal with my family and friends."

"Yes sir! Any preference which one, sir?"

"Better make it dinner. When's our first appointment today?"

"09:30 hours. Several Chinese leaders want to meet with you."

Once Mr. Witwicky was ready for the day, we headed down to the Autobot cargo bay again. As we waited for the elevator, he said, "Sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

'Here we go,' I thought. "Ensign Mohammad al-Sharif."

He glanced at me, but otherwise didn't react. "And we didn't scare you off yesterday?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Always."

The elevator door opened and I entered, pressing the button for the right level and then standing at ease, since he was being informal. "The Autobots are very intimidating, I won't deny it. But the mosque I worship at was vandalized in the aftermath of the September 11th attacks. Like your Autobots, I know what it is like to be misunderstood, to be judged guilty by association just for being what I am."

Oddly enough, that got more of a reaction than my name. His eyes widened in surprise and he blinked a couple of times, so I added, "I volunteered for this position because I have fought against prejudice before, and I want to help."

He stared at me, struck silent, for a moment before he choked out, "Thank you."

The man who commanded alien robots was shocked that I'd want to help? It almost made me grin, and I tipped my head in acknowledgement. "My pleasure, sir."

When we arrived at the cargo bay level, I followed Mr. Witwicky into the den of the maybe-djinn.

The yellow one, Bee, saw us and brightened, hurrying over. He mumbled something to Mr. Witwicky – it was unintelligible to me, but my fellow human seemed to understand and answered, "Morning, 'Bee. As ordered, I'm here for my meds. Oh, and Bumblebee, this is Ensign Mohammed al-Sharif. Ensign, meet Bumblebee."

Bumblebee nodded and turned his gaze on me. For the first time, I looked one of the aliens in the eyes, and the experience was…terrifying. I couldn't read him at all – he could have been happy to meet me or feeling jealously homicidal and I just couldn't tell.

Bumblebee focused on Mr. Witwicky again when he casually continued, "'Bee's been my personal guardian for the last two years. And 'Bee, Mohammed is my personal aide now, so if you guys need to find me and my cell's turned off or whatever, he's your man."

So Mr. Witwicky _did _have a djinn assigned to him. Interesting.

"It's about time your species realized you needed some extra help," one of the aliens grumbled from a partitioned-off area – the medical one, I realized. "Now get your skidplate in here."

Mr. Witwicky grinned – _grinned_ – and walked toward the medical area, nonchalantly accepting a bag from Ratchet labeled 'ibuprofen' with some pills in it.

"If you don't come down here before you turn in for the night, I'll send your Lortab with Optimus."

"Thanks. Oh, and Ratchet, this is Ensign al-Sharif."

"Yes, I heard," he said, and the terror of being pinned under Bumblebee's gaze was _nothing _compared to Ratchet's piercing glare. He crouched down, but I felt none of the respect and deference from him that he'd shown Mr. Witwicky. "And I expect you to remind him to take his medication and to eat. It is ridiculous the way your people have been treating him."

There was only one correct answer to that. "Yes sir."

"Good man. Now go away. I've got work to do."

Mr. Witwicky sniggered in the face of Ratchet's gruffness. "He's the warm, fuzzy type."

Out in the cargo bay, the big one – Optimus – stood waiting for us. He didn't kneel in front of Mr. Witwicky this time, but he did thank him for arranging a meeting with the NATO representatives. I was immensely grateful that Mr. Witwicky didn't feel it necessary to draw Optimus' attention to me and introduce us. I was still kind of rattled after meeting Ratchet.

Turning to me, Mr. Witwicky asked, "How long until the meeting?"

I wished it was time to go right now. Glancing at my watch, I said, "We can spend another five minutes here."

"Okay. Just sit tight for a few minutes, then. I'll be right back."

'Right back,' I thought. 'Sure. Lovely. I'll just…stand here and twiddle my thumbs in the middle of a cargo bay filled with dangerous alien robots while your guardian transforms and drives off with you.'

The Autobots hadn't shown any hostility – not really – but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was trapped in a room full of T-rexes. Sure, they hadn't snapped at me or pointed any weapons or tried to stomp on me yet, but the _potential _was there, ever-present in my mind. This was a dangerous place to be, no matter how kindly disposed the aliens were to Mr. Witwicky.

A black-armored alien ambled toward me, and I couldn't help but remember the superstition that evil djinn assumed the form of black animals.

"So you're Samuel's secretary?" he grunted.

Personal aide, actually, but I wasn't about to start arguing semantics with him. "Yes sir."

"My name is Ironhide." When I didn't comment, he leaned over me a little bit. "Don't recognize the name? Hasn't he told you any battle stories yet?"

"No sir."

He grunted again, this time with obvious disapproval. "You were on the ship at the time, so you didn't get to see it, but that battle was pretty impressive, even by Cybertronian standards."

"Cybertronian?" I squeaked.

"That's our home planet – Cybertron. Both the Autobots and the Decepticons come from there. Anyway, even by our standards, that was one helluva fight." And then he started going into detail about who the enemy was and what strategies they were using.

The blue alien walked by, muttering "Primus, Ironhide, you sound like Kup." The big black robot turned to glare at him, but the blue one was already past. Looking back at me, he said, "So there were thirteen Decepticons and only eight of us, but Bumblebee and the twins were off trying to distract Starscream, so really, there were only five us with you squishies for backup."

_Squishies_? In terror, my hand surreptitiously moved to my cell phone, and I texted Mr. Witwicky, hoping he'd come back so I could beat a kind-of dignified retreat. /1 min/

"I went into the thick of it," he rambled on, "trying to get Samuel to safety. He had to cross the Decepticon front line to get to us. I barely got out alive. Gotta hand it to you humans – that carpet bombing was a thing of beauty. Of course," he brandished an arm-mounted cannon, "I managed to land a few hard hits myself before I lost this baby. Had to get out of the way of those bombs." He turned his arm, pointing to a weld where the cannon was anchored to his arm. "See that? Ratchet's a good medic, he was able to reattach it before the dust had even settled. By the time that's fully healed, there won't even be a scar."

The yellow one, Bumblebee, careened over to me, but Mr. Witwicky stood talking to him for a moment before coming to my rescue. When 'Bee transformed back into a robot, Mr. Witwicky finally noticed Ironhide. "Is it remotely possible for you introduce yourself _without_ bringing your cannons into it?"

The terrifying Autobot harrumphed at him and looked again at the cannon. "I lost one of them in that battle. I have every right to show off Ratchet's impressive repair work."

"Uh-huh. Well, now that you've terrorized my aide, we'll be going. See you tonight."

I followed as closely on Mr. Witwicky's heels as I dared, not breathing easy again until we were safely in the elevator.

"Permission to speak freely?"

Mr. Witwicky was asking me? I smiled weakly before I caught myself. "Always."

He eyed me curiously. "What do you think of them? I mean, you've sat on their side of the fence before, but what do you think of them _personally._"

Not an easy question to answer. "Are you a spiritual man, Mr. Witwicky?"

"Not until recently."

I filed away that interesting comment, returning to his question. "To be perfectly honest, they remind me a little of djinn – powerful creatures that conceal themselves from humanity and each one a unique creation."

"Djinn?"

And here was where East met West, with all the typical misunderstandings. "Genies in English, though the word doesn't really convey the right meaning."

"Not quite following you."

"They are merely legends in some people's minds. Traditionally, though, djinn are powerful, frightening creatures. Like men and angels, they have free will. Some use their supernatural abilities to help mankind, while others are devils. But always they are terrifying to human eyes. Ironhide and Optimus especially remind me of djinn."

He chuckled, more amused than taking me seriously. "Okay, yeah, I can see that."

"I don't know how you can walk so casually among them." He was as much of an enigma to me as the Autobots.

"It's not like they'd step on me or anything." It was almost a question, like he was asking what there was to freak out about; he genuinely didn't understand.

"They are alien, other. Whether they're machines or djinn, they are not human. I understand that these Autobots are friends to humanity, but I will never spend a minute near them without feeling either in awe or in terror."

The idea seemed as alien to him as the Autobots were to me. "I guess I've gotten used to them."

Gotten used to walking in the realm of the supernatural. "You have lived a remarkable life."

With a grin, he retorted, "That, ensign, is an understatement."


End file.
